I lie in my light-filled, love-filled upstairs bedroom on a long, body-conforming bean bag. The air I feel and somewhat hear has traveled from the ocean, over the Ventura valley and into the space that I occupy, unsolicited. A stranger to mirrors and at odds with nature, I have planned my return to the mountains from the city like a long-lost relative finally coming home. I am tranquil and unwelcome since my thoughts aren’t as smooth as the wind or as joyful as the light or as differential as this three hundred dollar adult sized bean bag.
I am suffering from a paisley boredom, where the things I need to do and the things I want to do mix with the abstraction of relaxation, I thing I never do. When my hours pass unplanned, my sense of self is questioned, my accomplishments are examined, my dreams are ridiculed.
There are my myriad writing projects–all of which have passed their self-imposed deadlines–and un-tracked hours lead to lost words. It is impossible for a writer to lie or sit and simply be. For we are born to delineate, destined to catalog. Even the tranquility of a luxury mountain home cannot bend a writer’s preternatural resolve to unravel the universe and her currents while fastening the truisms and trends of humanity to written permanence. Or whatever.